


pure molten gold

by sushishorts



Series: whiskey lover [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, eggsy discovering this new kink and harry fanning the damn flames by EXISTING, i guess mild eggsy/roxy if u squint hard enough, low-key daddy kink, they're best buds in like "we fuck around but we dont like each other that way" sense, this is basically it tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushishorts/pseuds/sushishorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you fucking on about, then? You could get anyone in this bar who’s far decent than the pleb that I am.”</p><p>“On the contrary, Eggsy, you’re the most interesting lad I’ve seen in this place this month.”</p><p>Eggsy scoffs. “So you just invite pretty little lads on the dance floor for drinks in your posh area and swarm them with expensive drinks to sweep them off their feet?”</p><p>Mr. Hart eyes him carefully before asking, “Is it working?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	pure molten gold

**Author's Note:**

> i am rusty but i had to write for this ship. i just had to. i watched kingsman before 2015 ended and watched it again the other week and i just... fell so hard for it. it's an obsession at this point. i'm crying.
> 
> this is unbeta-ed so feel free to call out mistakes

 

 

He hates that bar for a reason.

There is something about being in a posh bar in the busy part of London; the blokes who are in it are often brutes and has less than decent things to say to the people they want to sleep with just because they have money. But that is exactly what Eggsy needs, so a little gritting of teeth and occasional biting his inner cheek often does the trick. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

Still, he wishes rich men have manners.

It is a Wednesday so the place is slow, as expected. He needs to get out of the house because Dean is having one of those moods of his, and as much as he hates leaving his Mum and Daisy behind, there is no other way for him to stay safe for the night. Besides, the man isn’t a total idiot to actually hurt a baby, and Dean often just drinks and shags Eggsy’s mum when he isn’t in sight. No punching bag lying around, nothing to punch to begin with.

So he has dressed as decently as he could on such short notice and goes straight to the bar to meet up with his best bud.

He sighs into his cheap champagne. Good heavens, he could at least get a decent drink from the men who are lurking on and about, but the odds of them roofying him are high. The thing he has learned about pompous bastards is that they’re rich but bloody desperate, and given that this is one of the most famous bars in London, the type is common around these areas.

On the dance floor is Roxy, a good, good friend who let him in the guest list at such short notice. They have met each other back in the Marines when he started out but eventually quit, but they have kept in touch and have remained friends all the while. She is wearing that little black dress that she partners with gold heels, dancing with a stranger with her blonde hair up. She goes wild with her makeup too, with that smoky eyeshadow and red lipstick. ( _MAC’s Russian Red_ , he remembers her saying with a grin when she kisses him on the corner of his mouth, a bit of the rouge staying there.)

He has never felt a sexual attachment to Roxy even though they have fucked around a lot. He is sure Roxy feels the same; they simply enjoy each other’s company in a physical level. Besides, she is a great fuck (and she would testify for herself if she could), and he isn’t the type to turn down something like that. If he doesn’t need money so much, he would be exclusively entitled to Roxy, Eggsy thinks.

None of the blokes around interests Eggsy at all, so he decides to slide down the dance floor and steal Roxy from that boring fella she is dancing with.  He does so by smoothly taking her by the hand and rocking his hips along to the music, twirling Roxy as he goes, and Roxy happily accepts his invitation to dance, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

His hands stays on her waist as they dance, but Roxy seems like she has something to say, so he leans forward.

“May I interest you in the gentleman I was dancing with?” She asks.

“Nah, poor bloke can’t even keep up with you, what makes you think he could keep up with me?”

“Hmm, shame,” Roxy says to his ears. “I was prepping the lad for you.”

“You’re the guvnor, Rox, but I think I’ll stay off their dicks for tonight. I did invite you out, yeah?”

Roxy draws away to turn around, her back against Eggsy’s chest as she moves to the music. The song iss shitty but somehow she makes it seem like she is enjoying herself. Eggsy presses a kiss on her bare shoulder as Roxy whispers, “Have you tried the VIP area?”

Eggsy finds himself laughing at that. “You honestly think I could deal with those fucking arsesholes when the bloody rejects around here are bad enough?”

Roxy turns to face him again and she takes one long look at his face, then past him. She smiles sweetly before leaning closer to his ear again and saying, “For starters, that man lounging in the VIP area has been staring at your arse for ten minutes and he seems like a load of fun. Spin me?”

He does, elegantly enough to pass as a move before looking up and seeing the said man.

Said man is leaning on the railing, sporting a glass of what seems to be whiskey from a distance. He wears square frames that hides the lines on his face. It seems like the man is on his late 40’s and loaded beyond relief, with that bespoke suit that fit every angle of his body to a T.

He’s usually unnerved by attention he gets from men significantly older than him, but there is something about the way he stares at him from across the room. (It feels like so wrong, he thinks, when they hover around when they’re almost twice his age. Old enough to be his dad, Jesus.) It’s probably the damn lights, or the rank champagne settling in his stomach, but it’s weirdly liberating. Maybe it’s how he seems uninterested in everything else in the room but him, or how Eggsy knew that the man knows nothing about what he does.

It’s all about survival, what he does. This man stares at him like he does everything just for the thrill of it.

They go back to the bar stools where they sit where Eggsy previously was, and upon sitting, the bartender places a martini in front of him. He points to the VIP lounge where the man in the suit is walking back in.

“Compliments from Mr. Hart,” the bartender says with a smile. “He’s inviting you over to the lounge, if you choose to accept.”

“And he will accept,” Roxy interjects, grinning at her friend. “I’ll have a Margarita, please.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Eggsy eyes the martini before taking it by the stem.

“Oh, you snob. He ordered you a martini. You could at least say thanks,” Roxy only looks up when the bartender gives her the drink she ordered, saying a small thanks before the bartender goes off to serve someone at the end of the table. “He’s rather handsome, don’t you think?”

“Handsome for his age, you mean? Rox, he’s, what? Fuckin’ 50?”

“Stop bluffing; you had that weird look on your face when you saw him. I know you low-key love old men but you’re just too embarrassed to even consider it. Don’t lie to me, love.”

He did? Eggsy covers his mouth in defense from Roxy’s psychoanalyzing. Roxy laughs at him.

“Look, you have weird daddy issues from both father figures that you have had so far in your life, so you long for those types often. Unconsciously, even. You haven’t thought about it?”

“Fuck you, Rox. Why are you doing this to me,” Eggsy groans into his hands. “Is it obvious?”

“Because I love you and you’re my favorite boy toy. Who’s into old men. You tense up when they touch your shoulder. It’s almost like you’re scared and turned on at the same time, it’s cute.”

“Oh sod off, you arsehole, you love seeing me in pain,” Eggsy glares at Roxy, who is fighting back the laughter forming in her throat. “It’s rude not to thank him, though. He looks important with that suit of his.”

“Just go, you silly thing. I’ll be fine here,” She says with a wink before getting into a meaningful conversation with the girl beside her, introducing herself as Roxanne. The lady replies with her name – Amelia.

Knowing he’d probably ruin her game, he slips away from the bar and idly walks towards the lounge, still unsure if he should accept the invitation. He is genuinely interested for the wrong reasons ( _damn it, Rox_ ), but it is human nature to be cautious about how to approach the whole thing. Still, he’s had a long week, and some decent company would mean a lot right now.

So he goes up that small flight of stairs leading to the best area in the bar, where the elite of the elite stay and mingle. From a distance, he feels completely out of place with his pleb clothing and accent, but before he could talk to the bouncer, the man is already waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He takes out a hand for Eggsy to grab and he does, and when they’re close enough, the man presses a soft kiss on his knuckles. The place where he kissed is warm, and he thinks, _okay, Roxy might be right about this_.

“Ah,” the man starts, releasing his grip almost immediately. Eggsy finds himself missing the warmth, but smiles instead. “I’m sorry, that was really forward of me.” He lets his hand out for a handshake and Eggsy shakes on it briefly. “Let me introduce myself; I’m Harry Hart.”

“Eggsy,” he says with a charming smile, the kind that makes men weak to their knees. He watches as Mr. Hart’s eyes narrow as he smirks, releasing his hand immediately after.

“I imagine you’re enjoying your drink?” Mr. Hart points on the martini in Eggsy’s hand while leading him to one of the booths. Eggsy looks behind as he is being lead, seeing Roxy watch him from afar with a proud grin and a malicious wink. “Now, I do have to apologize; I’m afraid this bar only makes substandard martinis.”

“Think you could do better?” Eggsy asks, staring at the glass then him, for that allure effect. He is good at teasing, after all.

“Oh, no question about that, my dear. Though I’d have to be with my own mini bar for it.”

 _My dear_ , Eggsy repeats in his head. That sends shivers down to his toes, so before he embarrasses himself, he slides into the booth where a bottle of whiskey, a vintage ‘37 Macallan, sat with two glasses, one of which empty.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” Eggsy says it nonchalantly enough, sipping his martini. He hopes he doesn’t seem like he’s trying too hard not to care. Luckily for him, he has always been a good liar. “Lucky for you, I’ve had a couple flutes of champagne already. Most of ‘em rank, but what’s a man to do, yeah?”

“I refuse to believe that this establishment serves awful champagne,” Mr. Hart says with a stern smile as he pours whiskey on the empty glass.

“’m not lyin’,” Eggsy puts down the martini and crosses his legs. “That, or the bartender hates me. Here, watch.”

He calls over a waiter and asks for a glass of champagne with a wink, the waiter scurrying over to get one immediately. Eggsy found that odd; no one usually rushed to serve him before. Huh.

When the champagne arrives, Eggsy takes it by the stem and passes it over to Mr. Hart, who takes a small sip. His lips are pursed in a thin line before giving the glass back to Eggsy. Eggsy, in turn, gulps half of it in one go, expecting the musty taste to engulf his tongue. Instead he is met by sweet and dry bubbles of stars pouring down his throat, and he makes a confused face.

“Odd,” Eggsy says. He looks up to Harry who is busy with his own glass of whiskey. “You’re prolly some top-notch bloke if they’re nice to me by proxy.”

“They probably should be, since I own this establishment.”

Eggsy is in the middle of finishing the martini – the damn mix of beer, champagne and martini in his stomach sloshing around – when Mr. Hart drops that on his lap like the conniving arsehole Eggsy has pegged him to be. He almost does a spittake on Mr. Hart’s face, but he covers his mouth instinctively and gulps the drink down with a wince. He coughs for a while and Mr. Hart comes closer to pat his back, offering a handkerchief.

Of course the damn bloke has a handkerchief. Even his handkerchief smells like a rich bastard.

He wipes his mouth and hands before offering it back, and Mr. Hart shakes his head, telling him to keep it. He keeps it in his pocket for safe keeping.

“Are you fucking taking the piss?” Eggsy says when he’s managed to stop coughing, and Mr. Hart only chuckles. “What are you fucking on about, then? You could get anyone in this bar who’s far decent than the pleb that I am.”

“On the contrary, Eggsy, you’re the most interesting lad I’ve seen in this place this month.”

Eggsy scoffs. “So you just invite pretty little lads on the dance floor for drinks in your posh area and swarm them with expensive drinks to sweep them off their feet?”

Mr. Hart eyes him carefully before asking, “Is it working?”

He usually hates these types for a reason; old men who are too charming for their own good, with their impeccable accents and grammar so different from where he grew up with. It reminds him a lot of how a proper man should be, with their perfect accents and grammar and how he doesn’t have all these. These types are authoritative and gentle at the same time; they are so good and nice and _gentle_ to him, contrary to what life has been for him.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t remember his father at all, and he is left with nothing but a bastard as a father figure who only taught him how to get away with petty crimes and how to properly roll a joint and how to take a beating and hide the bruises from Mum because she doesn’t need to worry about it when she already has so much in her hands, with Daisy crying every night and Dean’s screams muffled from the other side of the door. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

This man is old enough to be his father and there is something about him that made Eggsy want to beg for submission. Probably that air of refined spirit, or the suit that creases on the places where his joints bend, or his hair slicked back, or the frown lines that are well hid when he smiles so rarely over the span of twenty minutes.

He hates it, how he notices those features. He’s definitely flirting and it’s definitely _working._

When he comes to, Mr. Hart is still waiting for his answer.

“So you’re confessin’?” Eggsy takes the abandoned martini and continues drinking. It is too early to get drunk but he could already feel the tingle in his skin. He’s not even sure if it’s the drinks or the stares; he’s drunk all the same. “That you sweep pretty little lads off their feet on a regular basis?”

“No,” Mr. Hart answers, inching closer to Eggsy’s side of the booth, hand resting on Eggsy’s thigh. Eggsy could feel Mr. Hart’s gaze as he gulps the rest of the contents of that martini glass. “I have to admit that I haven’t done this before, so I’m rather flattered with your notion.”

That turns Eggsy red as he could go, and he tries to escape the embarrassing situation by excusing himself with his head down as swiftly as he could, but Mr. Hart’s hand is fast and is pulling him by the waist, stopping him on his seat.

“But I do wish you’d let me,” He whispers dangerously low and silent on Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy is weak and he’s afraid that he’s leaning into the voice too much, but he could feel the warmth of Mr. Hart’s breath on his ear and he’s too far gone. “You’re gorgeous and I’m smitten, I’m afraid.”

Eggsy shouldn’t have let it happen, but the man is suddenly kissing him breathless, a hand still on his waist and the other at the back of his neck, pulling him in like a tide. The kiss tastes like well-aged whiskey, pure molten gold on his tongue and he thinks, _what a shame to taste this secondhand._

The kiss isn’t unbearable, nor is it less than enjoyable, but it feels a lot like he is being played around the man’s fingers, and for someone who doesn’t get what they actually want in a regular basis, it feels like an insult. So with a strong grip, Eggsy removes Mr. Hart’s hands off his waist, smiling sickeningly sweet as he slides off the booth. He leans over the table and thumbs over the whiskey glass he is yet to drink. “You thought it was that easy, wasn’t it?”

“I was hoping for a little ease; it seems like you encounter advances regularly.”

“What makes you think I’d let you take me home, then?”

“You let me kiss you,” Mr. Hart recalls with a winning smirk, and oh, how Eggsy wants to remove that from his face. “You kissed back,” He is pouring himself another drink but he never removes his gaze from Eggsy, and perfectly does he stop pouring. “And you went here in the first place.”

“Sorry bruv, I do this a lot, so you’re not special.”

“But darling…” If it is possible to captivate someone with just his voice, it is exactly what is happening then, with Mr. Hart peering at him from the glass. He rests it down his crossed legs and continues. “I’ve been here from the start, and you never accepted anyone’s drink for you throughout the week. Just mine. Now, tell me…”

Eggsy’s very being is rattled. Mr. Hart smirks.

“Was I not special?”

Eggsy’s eyes widen, and he bolts out as fast as he could.

 

 

 

The memory of that night is stuck in his head for days.

As soon as he gets home, he takes the longest shower known to mankind and scrubs off every inch of his body who aches for that man. He could still smell his damn cologne in his skin and he wishes there is a way to forget how his voice sounds on his ears, how his lips feels against his, how his mouth tastes like, how he waits with bated breath for him to pull him closer because that’s exactly how he wants it, and he’s so afraid that the man _knows_ , just knows what it is that he wants.

He trashes his clothes across his room, leaves it there and doesn’t answer his phone for days.

When he does charge his phone up again, his voicemail is filled with Roxy’s messages, asking him what happened and where he is, so he sends a quick apology and assurance that he is fine; that he’s just been under the weather for the past few days. _My nose was running and I was delirious for most of the days, trust me, I was hideous_.

He leaves his phone to charge after deciding to clean his room, finally, because staying at home for days means not leaving his room _ever_ no matter what Dean says, and all he has done for the past days is strip and sleep and take a bath and jack off and wear clothes _only to strip them off again_. Basically, he is a naked wreck with issues about men in suits, and he ends up thinking about that night again, and _oh great_ , he’s gonna have to jack off again.

He sighs in defeat and grabs his trousers from that night, emptying the pockets so he could put them in the laundry basket. He stumbles upon the folded handkerchief Mr. Hart lent him that night, with his initials embroidered on it. It smells a lot like gin and that familiar cologne of his and _holy fuck stop it, I do not miss how his tongue feels down my throat_.

He stays seated on the floor with the handkerchief in hand, and when he’s done staring at the initials, he lets it fall on the ground, only for piece of paper flutter off. He leans down to get it and he sees a jumble of random numbers and the same initials from the handkerchief.

It all comes back to him, and he hates himself when he grabs his phone from his bed.

 

 

 

_From: Unknown Number_

_yea u were_

_\-- eggsy xx_


End file.
